Sensing they were nearing the end of the conversation, Nora suddenly had something to ask.

‘Were you really into philosophy?’

He burped. It was strange how shocking it was to realise that Ryan Bailey was a human being in a human body that generated gas.

‘What?’

‘Philosophy. Years ago, when you were playing Plato in The Athenians you gave an interview and you said you read a lot of philosophy.’

‘I read life. And life is a philosophy.’

Nora had no idea what he meant, but deep down she was proud of this other version of her for dumping an A-list movie star.

‘I think you said at the time you read Martin Heidegger.’

‘Who is Martin Hot Dog? Oh, it was probably just press bullshit. You know, you say all sorts of shit.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘Adios, amiga.’

‘Adios, Ryan.’

And then he was gone and Joanna was smiling at her, saying nothing.

There was something teacherly and comforting about Joanna. She imagined that this version of herself liked Joanna. But then she remembered she was supposed to do a podcast on behalf of a band where she didn’t know the names of fifty per cent of its members. Or the title of their last album. Or any of their albums.

The coach pulled up at a grand-looking hotel outside of town. Fancy cars with darkened windows. Palm trees wrapped in fairy lights. Architecture from another planet.

‘A former palace,’ Joanna told her. ‘Designed by a top Brazilian architect. I forget his name.’ She looked it up. ‘Oscar Niemeyer,’ she said after a moment. ‘Modernist. But this is meant to be more opulent than his usual stuff. Best hotel in Brazil . . .’

And then Nora saw a small crowd of people holding out their phones with outstretched arms, as if beggars with bowls, filming her arrival.

You can have everything and feel nothing.

@NoraLabyrinth, 74.8K Retweets, 485.3K Likes

A Silver Tray of Honey Cakes

It was wild to think of this life co-existing with her others in the multiverse, like just another note in a chord.

Nora found it almost impossible to believe that while in one life she was struggling to pay the rent, in another she was causing such excitement among people all over the world.

The handful of fans who had filmed the tour bus arrive at the hotel were now waiting for autographs. They didn’t seem too bothered about the other band members but they did seem desperate to interact with Nora.

She looked at one, as she crunched over the gravel towards them. The girl had tattoos and was wearing an outfit that made her look like a flapper girl who had somehow got caught up in a cyberpunk version of a post-apocalyptic war. Her hair was styled exactly like Nora’s, complete with matching white stripe.

‘Nora! Noraaaah! Hi! We love you, queen! Thank you for coming to Brazil! You rock!’ And then a chant started: ‘Nora! Nora! Nora!’

While she was signing autographs in an illegible scribble, a man in his early twenties took off his T-shirt and asked her to sign his shoulder.

‘It’s for a tattoo,’ he said.

‘Really?’ she asked, writing her name onto the man’s body.

‘This is the highlight of my life,’ he gushed. ‘My name is Francisco.’

Nora wondered how her writing on his skin with a Sharpie could be a highlight of his existence.

‘You saved my life. “Beautiful Sky” saved my life. That song. It’s so powerful.’

‘Oh. Oh wow. “Beautiful Sky”? You know “Beautiful Sky”?’

The fan burst into hysterics. ‘You’re so funny! This is why you are my idol! I love you so much! Do I know “Beautiful Sky”? That’s brilliant!’

Nora didn’t know what to say. That little song she had written when she was nineteen years old at university in Bristol had changed the life of a person in Brazil. It was overwhelming.

This, clearly, was the life she was destined for. She doubted that she would ever have to go back to the library. She could cope with being adored. It was better than being in Bedford, sitting on the number 77 bus, humming sad tunes to the window.

She posed for selfies.

One young woman looked close to tears. She had a large photo of Nora kissing Ryan Bailey.

‘I was so sad when you broke up with him!’

‘I know, yeah, it was sad. But, you know, things happen. It’s a . . . learning curve.’

Joanna appeared at her arm and gently guided her away, towards the hotel.

When she reached the elegant, jasmine-scented lobby (marble, chandeliers, floral displays) she saw that the rest of the band were already in the bar. But where was her brother? Maybe he’d been schmoozing the press somewhere else.

As she started to move towards the bar, she realised that everyone – concierge, receptionists, guests – was looking at her.

Nora was about to finally seize the opportunity to ask about her brother’s whereabouts when Joanna beckoned over a man who was wearing a T-shirt with THE LABYRINTHS printed on it in a retro sci-fi movie font. The guy was probably in his forties, with a greying beard and thinning hair, but he seemed intimidated by Nora’s presence. He did a tiny bow when he shook Nora’s hand.

‘I’m Marcelo,’ he said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to the interview.’